"Cascade" a short story for the #365daysofwriting challenge

This is today's offering (day 101) for @mydivathings' #365daysofwriting challenge (click here to see her current post)

Today's picture prompt (below) is a Photo by Stephan Seeber on Unsplash

Jenny opened the bedroom window, closed her eyes and let the cool breeze and the sun caress her face. It was so quiet, Jenny could hear the trickle of the melting snow. The last of the skiers had left yesterday. She had plenty to do before the first of the walkers arrived in a few weeks time, but for now she just wanted to enjoy the peace.

A cry broke the silence. Opening her eyes, Jenny located it’s source. A bird of prey, she didn’t know what species - John would have known, of course - circled high above. She watched it glide on the wind currents for a while.

Down below, at the end of the garden she saw something glint in the sunlight. There was something by the shed, partially uncovered by the receding snow.

Intrigued, she closed the window and made her way down the wooden stairs into the kitchen. Her boots - carefully cleaned last night - stood warming by the fire, on an English newspaper, left by one of the parting guests. She sat down on the sofa and pulled the boots on to her thick-socked feet. She took her coat from the peg by the door, and pulled it on, as she opened the door.

She was careful to step over Marcus, sunbathing as usual on the mat in front of the door. The black and white cat stretched his legs out and opened his mouth in a silent meow, when he saw her. She reached down and stroked his offered belly and he purred, and then scratched at her, but playfully, and without drawing blood.

Jenny picked her way across the garden, tutting as she saw the large number of cigarette ends casually thrown by guests, revealed, now, by the retreating snow.

She hadn’t been down here for a long time. As she approached she noticed the shed was looking tired and old. A bit like me! Jenny thought. It could certainly do with a bit of love. Still like me. The wood seemed dry and cracked. She would need to treat it with something. It had been John’s domain, of course. What was it with men and sheds?

After John died - without warning from a heart attack at the age of thirty seven - in the summer, Jenny’s sister had flown over to stay with her.

“It’s okay to let go,” Agnes said, holding her in her arms. “Let it out. Have a good cry.”

But Jenny hadn’t cried. She hadn’t needed to. She felt guilty about that, of course. She loved John with all her heart, and she missed him so much. God, she was furious with him too. Angry at him for persuading her to leave everything behind in England to come to Austria and run this bloody chalet business. And then he fucking well died on her.

Maybe it was the anger that stopped the tears. She didn't know.

Agnes had helped her prepare for the winter, and then Jenny had sent her home, back to her own husband.

“I can do it,” she said. As much to convince herself, as her sister.

“No one would think any worse of you, if you decided to come back home, Jenny.”

“This is home,” Jenny had said.

She could see that there was something angular sticking out of the snow, next to the shed. It was metallic, and it was this she had seen from the bedroom window. She bent down and pulled at it. The melting snow released the object willingly. It was a small metal box. An old biscuit tin. It was heavy. There was something inside it. When she shook it it rattled. She tried to open it, but it had rusted and it resisted her attempts to prise it open. She carried the box back to the house. Marcus had not moved, so she removed her boots at the door and hopped over him into the warmth of the house.

She put the tin on the kitchen table, leaving it whilst she filled the kettle and popped a tea bag in a mug. Whilst she waited for the kettle to boil, she took some kitchen tissue and lubricated it with sunflower oil and massaged it into the tin, trying to remove as much rust as she could. Then she took a kitchen knife and with care placed the blade in the lip of the box.

It took her a few minutes of careful work before she was able to lever the lid off. Out tumbled screws of various sizes, pouring onto the wooden surface of the table.

For some reason the sight and sound of the jumble of screws cascading out of their metal prison, triggered something inside of Jenny. Tears flowing down her cheeks, she lay her head down, feeling the metal screws bite into the side of her face.

Her whole body was wracked with grief, and the table shook gently in time with her sobs for what seemed like eternity.